Bruises
by SociallyAcceptedSchizoidSadist
Summary: It's quiet for so long Travis is about ready to hang up the phone and just go back to sleep and deal with whatever this is tomorrow, but the quivering voice that suddenly flits through the cell's receiver has that idea shattering instantly. "Trav? I need your help." Travis doesn't hesitate, just asks, "Are you okay?" [Teenagers AU; Wesvis pre-slash or bromance; oneshot; Wes whump]


_Author's Note: This is a teenager/high school AU with sixteen-year-old Wes and seventeen-year-old Travis. Pre-slash or bromance, there is affection between the two of them but there is no actual romance if you don't wish to see it as such. Potential trigger warning for injury inflicted on a minor. Nonetheless, I do so hope you enjoy._

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 **Bruises**

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It is the middle of the night when his phone rings. The loud blare of his ringtone startles him into reluctant wakefulness and pounds annoyingly into his head.

He snatches up the cell from his nightstand and focuses sleep bleary eyes on the red digits of his alarm clock angrily announcing _3:24 AM_. He doesn't even think to check the caller ID before flipping it open and pressing it against his ear. "Hello?"

It's quiet for so long Travis is about ready to hang up the phone and just go back to sleep and deal with whatever this is tomorrow, but the quivering voice that suddenly flits through the cell's receiver has that idea shattering instantly. " _Trav? I need your help._ "

Travis doesn't hesitate, just asks, "Are you okay?"

" _My dad and I had a bit of a disagreement._ " Which isn't really an answer, but informs Travis just as much.

"Where are you?" He grabs his jeans from yesterday that he'd left on the foot of his bed and starts pulling them on one handed.

There's a sound halfway between a huff of laughter and a sob floating in his ear before Wes's strained voice replies. " _The park a block from my house._ "

"Okay. Okay." Travis stuffs his feet into his trainers and snatches up his keys and jacket. "It'll take me about fifteen minutes to get there. Fifteen minutes, okay, Wes? Just wait for me."

" _Okay_ ," he said thickly, sniffing quietly before the call disconnected.

Travis wasted no time, sneaking out of the house to keep his foster parents from waking up, revving up his bike and setting off for Wes's neighborhood.

They had met on his first day of eighth grade after moving to his newest in a long line of foster homes. It was on the complete other side of the city from the last seven homes, so he didn't know a soul.

They hadn't gotten along at all when they first met. Arguments broke out into full on brawls more times than either could count; sent to the principal's office more than a few occasions. After two months of almost constant animosity towards each other, they had found a common enemy in a group of bullies terrorizing the lower class-men. Accidentally teaming up to knock the group down a peg, the two of them had discovered that while their behaviors clashed, their personalities clicked perfectly. They've been best friends ever since, even after Travis was sent to different foster homes in different school districts away from Wes.

Wes is a year younger than him, privileged and neglected in the worst ways, caustic and biting wit keeping everyone at arms' length. Travis has abandonment issues, hopping from foster home to foster home, fooling the world with charm and a smile. They both could see past the other's mask, knew how the other worked, and they clicked. They still fought, but they were always still friends. Each other's only real friend. And, Travis hopes, maybe something a bit more than just friends.

He'd known for ages that something was happening at Wes's house – something _bad_ – but they didn't talk about it. Not that Travis hadn't _tried_ but Wes was . . . well, Wes was Wes, he just _didn't talk_ about anything that was wrong with him. Travis knows that Wes's parents are divorced, his mom is out of the picture, and he lives with his workaholic dad, but that is pretty much it. Travis couldn't do much to help him anyway, Wes repeatedly reminded him before changing the subject away from himself.

 _Screw that_ , Travis thinks, accelerating down the street even faster than he usually would.

He gets there exactly fourteen minutes after getting off the phone. Wes is sitting on a swing with his back to the street, shoulders slumped and back curved, perfect posture abandoned. He is dressed in a pair of forest green pajama pants that hang loosely off his too thin hips, plain white t-shirt doing little to abate the late Autumn chill; his shoes are untied, no socks visible on the bit of his ankle peeking out from under his pant legs. But it isn't the unusual sight of Wes outside of his typical button up and slacks ensemble that makes Travis momentarily stop in his tracks as he rounds the swing set towards Wes; he had seen Wes in his pajamas before. No, it is what he sees in the yellow-orange lighting of the streetlamps illuminating the park playground.

Wes is hunched over on the swing, arms wrapped tightly around himself, eyes downcast and head bowed. His hair is disheveled, tufts of blonde spiking up randomly in all directions, and quiet tears stream in glistening trails down his cheeks. But it is the fact that the entire left side of his face is covered in bruises, the darkening purple standing out starkly against pale skin, that has Travis's heart almost skipping a beat.

Travis drops to his knees in front of the younger boy, one hand cupping the side of Wes's neck, the other moving to gently brush against the swelling contusions. It nearly breaks his heart when Wes leans into the touch, even paler than usual compared to Travis's own dark complexion. "Wes," he breathes, at a loss for words. This is so much worse than he'd imagined. "Baby, what happened?"

Wes just sniffles, not moving from his hunched position, and Travis suddenly becomes aware of the tremor running through the sixteen-year-old's body. He quickly shucks off his jacket, settling the leather over Wes's shivering shoulders. Travis runs one mocha hand soothingly through the short blonde hair, the other wiping away a thin, tacky line of drying blood on his chin from his split bottom lip.

"Wes?" Travis tries again when he remains quiet.

Wet eyes peek hesitantly at him from under pale lashes. "He didn't mean to." The quiet statement is punctuated by another sniffle. Ducking his head again, Wes swallows thickly before continuing. "I'd known he'd had a bad day at work. I should've just kept quiet but I—I provoked him. H—he just shoved m—me a little, but I was too close to the stairs and I—I—I just. . ."

 _Fell_. Travis closes his eyes for a moment, sending up a silent prayer for strength.

"It wasn't his fault," Wes concludes with something dangerously close to a sob. "I just didn't know who else to call. I don't—I don't have. . ."

The end of his statement is lost in a wave of silent tears. Travis is hard pressed to hold his own tears at bay. He has to make a conscious effort to unfist the hand not currently, futilely, rubbing away the wetness on Wes's uninjured cheek as Wes leans meekly into the touch. Travis is torn between sorrow and anger. That son of a bitch. Wes was pushed down a flight of stairs by his own father, and now he's sitting here defending the man. Wes was hurt and scared and had called him, Travis, for help. _I don't have anyone else. I don't have anyone else who cares enough to come, let alone answer their phone for me in the middle of the night. I don't have anyone but you._

Swallowing down his anger, Travis gently lifts Wes's chin up to meet his eyes. "Wes baby, are you hurt anywhere else?"

"No, I don't. . ." Travis watches as Wes tries unsuccessfully to blink the moisture in his eyes to a stop. "No."

Blue eyes locked on blue eyes, Travis asks as softly as he can, "Do you mind if I check?"

Wes just looks at him for a moment before he slowly, slowly, shakes his head, signaling a go ahead to Travis.

Whether fortunate or otherwise, Travis has patted people down for injuries a few times before – as a member of his school's track and long jumping teams, he knew what a broken bone felt like on another person, and since not all the homes he'd lived in were very good, he's had a bit of practice. He carefully moves his hands down Wes's legs, finding only a few tender spots that are likely nothing more than bruises hidden under the green cotton. He finds a nice sized bruise along the outer bone of Wes's left forearm and another on his lower back, probably from landing hard, and a few sensitive ribs, but nothing broken or bleeding; his lip already scabbed over. Wes's left eye is swelling and Travis finds a nice goose egg by his temple, but from what he can see in the dim lighting Wes's pupils are the same size and his breath smells like hours old toothpaste rather than fresh vomit, so Travis hopes he doesn't have a concussion. Wes would be sore for a good few days, but he doesn't seem to be in any danger.

Wes pulls Travis's leather jacket tighter around himself as another shiver rattles his lean form. Travis can't help but ask. "How long have you been out here, babe?"

Wes's voice is soft, lacking his characteristic mask of sarcasm. It scares Travis just a little bit, seeing Wes so painfully vulnerable. "Not long. I called you just after I got here."

Travis crouches back down in front of Wes on the swing, a warm hand on each thin knee. "When did all this happen?"

"A couple hours ago, I guess," Wes offered with a small shrug. "My father was asleep when I came to. I didn't want to stay in that house after that so I just came here."

Warning bells alighted in Travis's head at that. "Wait, hold up, 'came to'? Wes, were you knocked out?" Maybe he has a concussion after all. How long had Wes been unconscious on the floor before walking a block away and phoning him?

Eyes averted, Wes gives another shrug. "I guess my father didn't notice." Wes sniffles once, twice, before reducing to silent sobs that wrack his whole body.

This time when Wes breaks down, Travis pulls him down off the swing and to his chest. Wes buries his face into the nook between Travis's neck and shoulder, mindful of his blackening eye. Travis holds him close, settling them into a slightly more comfortable position. He ends up with Wes curled up on his lap, hands clinging tight to the back of his shirt as though afraid Travis might disappear, and it is all Travis can do to shift his own legs out from under himself so they won't go numb from Wes's weight. They stay like that for a long while, Travis holding them both up, rubbing his hands up and down Wes's back, through the hair at the nape of his neck, along the outside of his leg while Wes releases all the emotions he never lets himself express, the pain and grief and anger expelling violently, but still remaining silent, oh so very silent, nothing but his ragged breathing is heard even as he cries his heart out.

A few tears track down Travis's face too as he whispers, "I've got you. You'll be okay. I'm here." He plants a gentle kiss to Wes's scalp.

After a while, Wes's sobs recede back into sniffling as his tears slow before finally stopping. Travis feels Wes's hold around him loosen and the blonde head move to lie on his shoulder instead. Wes is limp in his arms, eyes open, still save for the occasional hiccup or shiver. Travis wipes the last of Wes's tears away, picking his jacket up from where it had slid down and pulling it back around Wes.

"Hey." Travis clears his throat. "What's say we get you looked at by a doctor, I take you back to my place. We can skip school and sleep all morning."

Wes seems to hesitate a minute before murmuring, "Can . . . can we . . . stay here, for a few more minutes? Like this . . . just a few minutes?"

Planting another chaste kiss, this time to Wes's forehead, Travis nods. "Yeah, little bit longer. That's fine." He lays his cheek on the top of Wes's head, just holding him for a moment. "Don't go to sleep, though, not 'til we get that pretty little hard head of yours looked at."

Wes's mumbled reply sounds something like "you hard head" before the younger boy burrows close to Travis's chest. Travis can't help but preen quietly at that, rubbing a thumb over Wes's kneecap. Later Travis will bundle Wes into jacket and helmet and wrestle him onto the motorcycle. He'll drag Wes to the nearest ER just in case, whether Wes likes it or not, then take him back to his foster home whether his foster parents like it or not too. Then Travis will make sure they sleep until noon and he'll make pancakes or something for the both of them to eat. And later, much later, when Wes is safe and okay, Travis will let himself think about how to keep him that way.

But for now, for now he is content to just sit on damp grass only a few hours from sunrise while holding close to him the person he cares most about in the world. For now he is content to just exist with Wes, not worrying about anything that is or is to come.

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End

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 _Author's Note: This is my first story posted. I have been writing for a few years, but this is my first time trying my hand at my OTP (any kind) Wesvis. I have found a deep love with Common Law AUs for some reason I can't quite explain. Please tell me what you think of this little beauty. I am rather proud of it. I have a few longer stories in the works for this fandom already. Hopefully I'll get around to posting them one day. TTFN,my dears, ta ta for now. Stay Sassy!_

 _~SASS~_


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